


Thoughts of those past

by StarOverHeaven



Series: grief and anger stew bitterness [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Do not post this work to another site, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarOverHeaven/pseuds/StarOverHeaven
Summary: Dream thinks about Wilbur.
Series: grief and anger stew bitterness [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2184792
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Thoughts of those past

Nobody would describe Wilbur and Dream as “friends.” They weren’t, not really - they were both too similar to gravitate to one another, always maintaining a safe distance at arms length, fingertips touching for only brief interactions. 

Dream would not describe Wilbur as a “friend.” That didn’t mean they weren’t friendly. War had dug a rift between them, something neither could cross. At best they stood on opposite sides, aware that their goals were similar but never matching. If they were to walk together on a path, they would match stride, distant but familiar. 

Wilbur would not describe Dream as a “friend.” He was aware of his issues with control, aware that Dream craved control as much as he did. Their methods were different but their goals were similar, just enough that every step they took was in the beat of the others. 

So when Dream walks up that hill, bag in hand and sword against his shoulder, Wilbur does not move from where he sits in the cold grass. The moon shines dimly through the trees, white light swaying over Wilbur’s face where the leaves sway above him. The cigarette glows warmly when he takes a drag, tired eyes unphased by the sound of approaching footsteps and the clink of Dream’s armor. 

“Wilbur.” Dream greets, lifting the bag like an offering. The other man looks over at him, smoke wafting from his lips in a sigh. 

“Dream.” Wilbur says warmly, then gestures to his side. Dream pauses, then steps closer, setting the bag down and lowering himself to the ground. The grass is cold, faintly wet with dew as he settles down. It is, in it’s own way, an offering of peace. Wilbur’s shirt is stained with fresh blood, and a bandage is wrapped tightly around his hand, up his wrist and tied off just before the elbow. Dream pretends not to notice, watching as the other man looks away. 

L’manberg’s broken walls are visible in the distance from the top of this hill. The oak trees sway above them in the breeze, a quiet peace in the eye of the storm of war. The ashes of the old flag are still a smoldering light in the distance, the new one hoisted up and glowing faintly in the dark from the glowstone dust-soaked threads. 

“Those’ll kill you, you know.” Dream’s voice is casual. Wilbur glances at him, then huffs out a quiet laugh. It’s a strange sound, like a secret shared, and then he takes another drag. 

“Not much won’t, nowadays.” Wilbur replies, and smoke whispers between his lips with every letter. Dream watches him, head against his fist, then turns his eyes to the bandage around Wilbur’s arm. Conveniently, it covers up his heart meter, the three red hearts now gone two-black against his skin. 

For a few minutes there’s a quiet sort of peace as Wilbur rolls his cigarette between his fingers. The burnt ash bud of it reflects in his eyes, a hint of flame and fire. Finally, his cigarette gets too low and he drops it in a bottle of water. Buds sit at the bottom, the ashy residue evidence of how long Wilbur has sat on the top of the hill consuming flame and smoke only to breathe it away. 

The gunpowder sits between them, a promise. Wilbur turns to look at Dream, warm brown eyes dulled and reflecting red from the light of the town that sits before them. 

Dream meets his eyes, the porcelain mask between them the only thing that separates them. 

Silently, Wilbur looks down at the bag. Takes it into his hands like it’s precious, like it’s a child, and sets it on his lap. 

A promise. 

“When I die,” Wilbur murmurs. Dream listens. 

The shadows grow shorter. The sun rises. 

Dream is standing over a crater, laughter at his lips and a wild grin as explosions go off. It cuts off abruptly as he sees, from the corner of his eye, a flaming sword. He turns to look - 

_One big happy family._

He is standing over a crater. It is much bigger than the last. Obsidian shines below his feet, his netherite boots clinking against it as he walks. TNT rains down, destroying everything in its path. Lava glows from beneath, water falling into the pit he’s created. Bedrock glints from the depths. 

A ghost in yellow is standing at the edge. Dream watches as it stumbles downwards, eyes wide and empty. They don’t reflect anything. They aren’t really there, just empty mirrors of white. TNT falls, and the ghost vanishes into a fog of white. Dream turns away. 

Time passes. Dream stands on the grid, and feels the wind play with his hair. A ghost stands beside him, a figment and falsity. 

_Did it work?_ Wilbur asks, and Dream doesn’t look at him. 

_I died, and it worked. Didn’t it? For a little while, everything was happy. Everyone was too busy hating me to hate each other._

“Tommy burned down George’s house.” Dream murmured. 

_But does that matter, in the long run?_

The not-ghost looks at him. Dream does not look back. He knows that the not-ghost is his own mind, a trickery and falsity. Wilbur is dead. So how does he keep doing things better than Dream ever can? 

_They hate you, now._

“They don’t have to love me.” Dream replies. 

_But it hurts you anyway. I died, and everyone celebrated. Some of them mourned. Some of them still hate me. Do you?_

Dream doesn’t reply, but the answer is _no_ and they both know it. 

_You’ll do what I did. Make them so busy hating you they can’t hate one another._

“It’s worked before.” Dream says, and pretends that something in him isn’t rotting. He walks away, and the figment remains, a ghost of a trench coat and gunpowder stained fingers standing above the grave Dream had made for him. 

A beautiful grave, dust rubble and ash. 

Something they’d made together once before. 

Time passes, and Dream is alone beneath the trees on a familiar hill the day before a duel. There is a bottle tucked under the roots of a tree, filled with still water that contains only ashes and whispered memories of words. He opens his eyes, and the memory of brown hair and tired eyes has faded. Obsidian surrounds him, shining in orange-lit cascades of fractals. It’s hard against his back, too-warm, and he blinks tiredly at the floor. 

Tommy’s boots against the floor are a repetitive sound, new and confusing to remember why the sound is there. Dream lifts his head and watches the teenager wear a crease into the floor with tired eyes. Without his mask, he feels strangely open. 

“Do you miss Wilbur?” Dream asks into the silence. 

Tommy stops abruptly. There’s a fire in his eyes when he looks at Dream, something that stirs the older man into a sense of familiarity. Laughter and attempted mob farms, watching Tubbo and Tommy create something while Wilbur lays in the grass on the hill nearby, watching the clouds and texting Tommy on his communicator to tell Dream things when they’re within shouting distance. 

Just as quickly, the fire fades. There’s a grief there, old anger stewed into bitterness. “Yeah.” Tommy says, and looks away. 

“I do too.” Dream admits into the quiet. 

The lava bubbling away outside the walls has never seemed so loud. 

**Author's Note:**

> "What if, in a way, Dream was trying to replicate the way Wilbur had gotten peace in the post-pogtopia war. Where he had died and people were too busy being betrayed and hating him to hate each other. What if Dream planned to do that deliberately, or maybe had hoped it would happen. What if it was all planned to end this way from the start?" - A thought by me at 4pm today randomly, thinking about how legit everyone doesn't like Dream rn except Phil and Techno who don't care.


End file.
